The Other Son - a poem.

I've worked the fields for as long as I can remember,
fulfilled by the labor and the place at my father's table and in his heart.
My brother deserts, impatient inheritance in hand,
with eyes never to return. I return to the fields,
twice the work but not twice the appreciation.
I guess obedience is a lonely occupation.

When he returns to grovel, disinherited and in debt,
my father lifts him up and throws the lavish party
I never once was offered for my years of faithful work.
I guess there's no party for never straying.

Am I invisible for staying? The father tries to comfort me,
"You have always been with me, and all I have is yours,"
Truly, I've never gone hungry, never doubted his love
but I guess I'm just saying—
obedience is a lonely occupation
and there's no party for never straying.


—Ellen H.
(In my "Monologues" series. A perspective on the biblical Prodigal Son allegory, Luke 15:11-32)

Starry-eyed girl - a poem.

[Experimenting with more poetic styles and voices, and unearthing old ones. I found a short fiction story I wrote at a writing workshop years ago, and distilled a poetic version from bits of lines within it. I prefer poetry and real life over fictional stories, but this little series was fun to piece together.]

☆

Young couple strolling in the quiet street outside,

cool air dimly lit by gentle white of stars

mingled with warm amber of street lamps—

It was then that she broke up with him.

Ending this teenage tryst made him slump

and his eyes no longer hold their glow,

she could almost hear him breaking.
He squeezed her hand; she let go.

☆☆

Racing home, her heart now out of reach

for a casual fisher. Soon she’d be
casting in the constellations
for her dreams of ambition and adventure.

The partner was an optional,

interchangeable role, fading
into her greater heroine tale.

☆☆☆

Despite the chill of spring,
she left her bedroom window ajar.

Through leaves of the elm outside,
she glimpsed Orion and forgave herself
for missing him. Because of tonight,
she perceived more clearly who she would be

in years to come. For rivers may change course

from season to season, but constellations

keep their shape for eons.

--Ellen H.

Hum of Creation - an ekphrastic poem.

[Ekphrastic poems are pieces inspired by a piece of art. Here is one of mine, the painting introduced to me at a poetry workshop years ago. Enjoy!]

“Hum of Creation”

from Remedios Varo's painting “Embroidering the Earth's Mantle"

While a tempest brews outside,

rumbling, and shudders;

Inside, nimble fingers bob, weave and flutter.

Light filters gray through slit windows

of secreted stone tower;

Swish of sleeves and whir of looms

provide ambience every hour.

I look up from my looming work

at my golden-haired siblings;

Though we look alike,

as youngest I jam the yarn-strings.

To keep rhythm with the others

I sing softly as I work

to the monk’s hymn-like incantations

that in my ears do lurk.

For my sisters and I create this mantle

that spills down o’er the world

but the Chanter’s tones infuse the Life Force

into the fabric so artfully twirled.

Though I am the novice,

our work flows steadily on;

It is our trade to provide the ground

that earthly beings shall tread upon.

And though I would not exchange our lots—

those fragile mortals with me—

I do often wonder on

the varied lives they'll lead.

But I will never know them

for when our creative work is done,

we will rest up in the heavens

as starry Sisters, Seven in Constellation.

But work and wait – that eternal fate

for us has not yet come—

and I smile to hear these golden maidens

join me in my hum.

--Ellen H.

*Notes: It was my idea to connect this painting with the seven Pleiades (Seven Sisters constellation); not the painter's (that we know of). Different ancient mythologies say they were the daughters of Atlas or Zeus, set in the sky as stars for burial or to protect them from a pursuer. “The loss of one of the sisters, Merope, in some myths may reflect an astronomical event wherein one of the stars in the Pleiades star cluster disappeared from view by the naked eye.”

And, of another painting of the Pleiades sisters: “Interestingly it shows each connected with their corresponding star by a thread, here perhaps representing the process by which they were turned into stars."

Valley Fever - a poem.

Note: Most of my poems are autobiographical non-fiction in first person. Lately though, I've gotten ideas for poems featuring narrators whom aren't myself, more of a sort of Monologues by fictional characters. The following poem is in this almost-theatrical style, and perhaps I'll share more like this in the future. This is still "real life" however, in that the sickness called Valley Fever is a real condition caused by a fungus found in the soil that can turn into a harmful respiratory infection.

Valley Fever

They say the earth is helpful, healthful,

good for your body and soul

but I say that a poison runs in her veins

less obvious and less useful than petroleum.

They say that the ground can grow no harm,

if it’s a plant, it’s probably good,

if it’s from the soil, it probably will do you well…

except tetanus and

except this fever in my lungs

a deadly, silent, fungus of the earth

and those who work her ground are most vulnerable to it,

like a smothering, revolting relative with toxic breath

who pulls you in when she hugs you then

blows a hot wind over your face

stirring up the dirt and you can’t help but breathe it in

only to discover much later that you can’t breathe at all

because her venomous legacy is growing in your lungs...

Some call it Valley Fever

All I know is that Mother Earth is not the benevolent nurturer

all the ads and bohemians love to tell you

but rather one who builds weapons against us

or at least lets parasites quite insidious

grow beneath her nails

unseen, unchecked

and when you get too close to her

she scratches you

They call the Earth their Mother

but I say let’s call her a Wicked Step-Mother

© Ellen H. 2018 

© Ellen H. 2015